Guided by Phantoms
by Child of the Gypsies
Summary: When the people you love don't know you exist, every day you are alone in a crowded room. And even the quietest person can only stand the solitude for so long... Rated T for blood, character deaths, hallucinations, insanity, and traumatized Scottish Folds. A Snapped fic


I do not own nor have any rights to Hetalia. All rights belong to Hidekazu Himaruya.

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"Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms" -Guy de Maupassant,_ Le Horla et autres contes fantastiques_

**_..._**

_He deserves it, you know he does. He ignored you._

He brought his arm up and down, up and down, egged on by his ever present friends.

_Fought so hard for you, but never loved you. Used you. He is only getting what he deserves._

Up. Down again.

_Less, less than what he deserves! You are being merciful. Very merciful indeed._

Up. _Squeeeealsh!_

The man giggled gleefully at the noise, the delight on his face making him look little more than a boy. It was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds, and he continued the rhythmic motions, hoping to hear it again.

"Mmmm, warm and thick, like syrup," he hummed, ignoring the new stains being added to his once pristine jacket. "Red looks so nice against the white, don't you think?" His question, uttered at a half whisper, had a sing-songy lilt to it.

No response.

The small, soft smile which graced the speaker's face froze, turning icy. "_Don't_"- down- "_ignore_"- up- "_me!_" Down. Taking a deep breath, he repeated the question, louder and firmer.

Silence.

Angered by the other man's continued rudeness, he yanked the knife lodged in the other's shoulder free. His normally gentle eyes flashed with rage, and he let out a violent cry as he slashed the offender's face, determined to get an answer, even if by force. Not a sound from his victim. Teeth clenched, he examined the bleeding face.

_He's MOCKING you, the old fool is- _

Strange sounds erupted from the corner of the room, sending the teen to his feet in a flurry of motion, the clinking of buckles almost inaudible over the noise. Fair locks fell into his eyes as he whirled around and hurled the nearest object in the direction of the disturbance. William Shakespeare, or rather, a paperweight bust of the playwright, crashed through the glass of the elegant antique grandfather clock, and the chiming ceased.

The intruder's ragged breathing filled the room as he tried to calm himself. After several minutes of straining his ears for the sounds of any movement, he returned to the limp body behind him.

It was now, at this height, that he could see the extent of the blood pooled around the body. For the first time, he noted the glassy quality of the emerald eyes gazing up at the ceiling.

"Oh... already dead, eh?" He continued to stare almost blankly at the corpse, disappointment and joy flooding through him at the same time, the opposing emotions clashing and mixing like two opposing weather fronts.

_Seeeee? We told you it would be easy. He was old, weak. _

_You did well. Very well._

_Tsk, he was messy! So much evidence to hide now._

"C-Can't... can't we just leave it? The next meeting isn't for ages... and it could be a warning... to the others. So they can change."

_Are you suggesting they get a second chance?_

_They don't deserve it, you know this. They've always ignored you, and they always will._

_They've had their chances. It is time they paid. _

"Yes... yes, you're right..." A calm smile replaced his uncertain expression. "You are always right."

At this, he took the chance to survey the damage. The papers on the desk had been scattered and crushed. Books lay on the carpet, some open and face-down, pages crumpled and torn. Crushing the legs of the shaggy haired man was a large overturned bookshelf, the work of his attacker. The remains of a shattered brandy glass surrounded a cracked globe. Blood, still yet as bright red as when it first spurted forth, had been smeared on walls and furniture, or took the form of petite paw-prints leading to the door. Sunlight, streaming though the tall, in some cases blood-smeared, windows, illuminated the particles of dust which had been disturbed during the ruckus. He watched them swirl and dance for a moment, noticing the soothing classical music which still played softly in the background. Puzzled, he continued his scan. A rather out-of-place looking, high-tech sound system was installed in one corner. It was perhaps the only thing in the room unmarred by their battle. On the floor beside it lay a picture frame, the glass shattered. Carefully, he picked his way through the wreckage towards it. Bending down, he gingerly extracted the photo.

Four men, all blondes of various shades, stood outside a beautiful white building. One had sharp emerald eyes, gazing out crossly from underneath enormous, bushy eyebrows. The man who now lay dead behind him. To his left, a stubbled man with wavy, chin length hair blew kisses at someone out of the shot. On the other side of the dead man stood a teen, taller and far tanner than the others, beaming at camera with laughter in his sky-blue eyes. Lastly, standing a little ways from the rest of the group, a thin teen with a timid smile clutched what appeared to be a stuffed polar bear. Half his face was cut off by the edge of the picture.

The man stared at the photograph, deep in thought.

Directly below on the bottom floor, a tall, fashionably dressed man, the same one who was so flirtatious with the camera, had let himself in, grumbling as he shook the rain off of a gray umbrella.

"Angleterre? Are you well? You better 'ave a good reason for not answering your phone, Amerique eez worried sick," he called out grumpily. "Called me at zhe un'oly hour of 11, when 'e KNEW I 'ad been out wizh Antonio et Gilbert last night. 'Is yelling did nozhing for my 'angover..."

His grumblings were met with the soft pattering of rain outside and nothing else.

"Angleterre? England!" The man's voice, loud down below, was faint up above, and could not shake the other from his thoughts.

Though nothing seemed disturbed, the newcomer could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. He continued to gripe, in a nervous manner now, as he explored the lower level, peering around corners before fully entering any new area.

Suddenly, sounds of movement in the kitchen caught his attention.

"Angleterre, really now! We are too old for 'ide et seek!" Swinging open the kitchen door, the annoyed man frowned. It was deserted. A can of Applaws sat on the counter beside what appeared to be a pet's food bowl.

"Salut?"

He took a few steps in, only to be met with loud hissing emanating from on somewhere above his head. A frightened looking Scottish Fold sat atop the refrigerator, its hackles raised. Treading lightly, the man slowly approached the skittish feline.

"What 'appened to you, petit chat?" Reaching up to try to get the poor thing down, the cat hissed once more and swiped at his hands, claws unsheathed. His heart skipped a beat. A dark, dried substance covered its paws. It looked strangely like...

"Ah...ah non...non non non!" Aqua eyes widened, refusing to acknowledge what he was seeing. Ignoring the cat, he ran from the kitchen, tearing through the house in search of its owner. "ANGLETERRE! ANGLETERRE, ZHIS ISN'T FUNNY!" Reaching the winding staircase, he bounded up them two at a time.

A story above, the teen's head snapped up.

_Someone is here... don't let them see you, hide, hide! Hide... and wait..._

Obediently, he closed the heavy curtains, throwing the entire room into near complete darkness, then slipped to hide in the corner by the door.

_You fool, the dagger!_

Dashing from his hiding place, he retrieved the dagger, tripping over a book on his way there. His head hit the floor with a thud, his hair falling into the puddle of blood. Scrambling to his feet, he half-stumbled back.

Soon the footsteps had reached outside the door.

"Arzhur?" came the Frenchman's soft whisper. Grasping the handle with trembling hands, he opened it. The well-oiled hinges made no noise.

"Arzhur, are you-" Squinting into the darkness, he flipped on the lights. "MON DEIU, ARZHUR!" Trembling, he ran to the downed man's side, and threw his shoulder into the bookshelf, trying to remove it.

"It's solid oak, Papa. Don't bother." The Frenchman's blood ran cold. Slowly, as if afraid of what he would see, he turned to face the speaker.

"M-Mattheiu?"

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Applaws- British brand of pet food.

Angleterre- England

Petit chat- little cat, or kitten

I did my best with the accent, so if it's horribly cheesey, please know I meant no disrespect.

Reviews are, of course, greatly appreciated!


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